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bambiesfics · 1 year

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𝐄. 𝐖𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐦𝐬 𝐅𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 ♥️’𝐬 𝐌*𝐥𝐟𝐬 ╰₊✧ ﾟ

Part One - [FIND PART TWO HERE]

ˎˊ˗ SYNOPSIS: You’re a yummy, soft around the edges older lady, with a post-partum body that jiggles in the most delicious ways. Ellie simply can’t get ahold of herself, every time she sees you, her pupils turn into pretty pink hearts, and her clit thumps in rhythm with her beating heart.

ˎˊ˗ A/N: This is re-upload of my series fic, part 2 & 3 are already written!

𝐈𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐀 𝐒𝐔𝐍𝐍𝐘 𝐃𝐀𝐘 𝐈𝐍 𝐀𝐔𝐆𝐔𝐒𝐓, when Ellie Williams realized for the first time, how much of a sick little whore she was for older women, especially with children.

Her jaw went slack when she walked by your house in the warm weather, lustfully staring at how the crease of your ass was spilling out from under your denim cut off shorts. You were too busy wiping chocolate off your toddler's face to notice the young brunette ogling you like a pervert.

Her steps faltered and then eventually just slowed to a complete stop. A wanton chance to stand there and stare at you. Ellie’s heart was thumping fast, but her clit was thumping faster. You were so womanly, so plush and pretty. Gosh, Ellie was so enamored with the tubby meat of your ass, and those yummy thighs of yours, to notice that her vanilla scoop ice cream had slowly melted atop her tight fist, and the sugary drippings splattered onto the toe-box of her converse sneakers.

When you finally stood up from where you were bent over your toddler, after haven given the aforementioned teen girl, a free, front-row show to ogle at your asscheeks. You’d realized that the same adorable young girl with auburn hair, had been staring at you. You naturally assumed it was heatstroke that made her all stiff like that. So you invited her inside. But reality set in when you noticed that no matter what you were doing, whether it was getting her a glass of water, or placing the back of your hand on her forehead to gauge her temperature, Ellie's eyes always found their way back down to your puffy nipples or your buttcheeks.

She continuously ran her tongue along her bottom lip as she manspread. Or rubbed her palms down her thighs just slow enough for you to catch the pride flag bracelet dangling from her wrist. And in less than a second your thoughts had flitted from ‘Oh…’ to ‘OH!’

You tried to push it into the back of your mind. Because, surely that didn’t mean anything. Ellie was just a nice young lady whose head was stuck in the clouds, the bracelet and the wandering green eyes, they didn’t necessarily mean that she wanted to…fuck you, did it? She’s too young to be so ambitious anyway, to be so wantonly lustful. No not this sweet, slightly spaced out, teenage girl. That’s what you wished to believe, so you rolled off the lustful thoughts, and instead offered her some lunch. A baloney and lettuce sandwhich with the crust cut off. Just how you assumed every kid liked it, It was the motherly thing to do.

“Wanna taste you sooo bad” she muttered as you came up close to place her lunch next to her. In an instant a deep pink blush bloomed wildly on Ellie’s face, her eyes widened in embarrassment and the blood vessels in her eyes became more pronounced. “I-I meant I wanna taste your sandwiches. L-L-like the one you just gave me…..I’m really sorry.” She turned her head to the side “Fuck. me.” The cherry cheeked girl had whispered the last part so low you almost missed it.

Ellie was so fucking humiliated, but she couldn’t help it. All she could do was trip and stumble over her words, and apologize each time her sinful lips accidentally verbalized every vivid fantasy she had, without her brain’s consent. Your curvy, post-partum body was doing sick things to her cunt. Cause damn, all she wanted was to stuff her face under your puffy pussy, tell you to drop your full weight on her head and then beg you to suffocate her.

Ellie got her wish, because after she embarrassed herself, you invited her to watch a few cartoons with your tot. Cartoons transitioned to action thrillers when your toddler got sleepy. And thrillers turned into you riding her tongue as she nipped her pink lips at your thumping, swollen clit. Suckling it into her mouth as she rubbed her own pussy through her jeans. Ellie brought both hands to grab the fatty dough of your ass and forced you to grind on her face, ride her nose until your heart's content. She even licked downwards until she reached your pucker, tonguing your furled tight rim. She’d always wanted to rim a girl, and fuck, today she just might. Before Ellie could continue poking the tip of her tongue into your asshole, you lifted yourself off her face and hovered your pussy above her lips as you came, watching your hole drip out sticky strings of your arousal onto her chin. Ellie held out her tongue to catch it.

And then you—.

“—Ellie!”

“Ellie!”

Your voice ripped right through her fantasy. “I think it’s starting to get late, you should go home now.” You said as you held her shoulder, worried about the ditzy girl.

Ellie’s eyes faltered momentarily, disappointed at the realization she had just gotten too deep into her fantasy again. Of course some random lady with a kid and likely a husband wasn’t going to let her fuck on the first day they met.

She pushed herself off from your counter and readjusted the front of her pants, trying to accommodate her swollen clit.

She hadn’t been this ravenously attracted to a girl in years. She already knew she was going to finger herself at the thought of you and your ass suffocating her deliriously, tonight.

Ellie shuffled outside, hands stuffed in the front of her pockets playing with the little Hawaiian tooth pick you put on her baloney sandwich.

The sun was low, and the horizon of its setting was a warm orange. The air cooled the nape of her neck. All she could think about was you.

Ellie had completely forgotten about how the point of her walk through your neighbour, was to go pick up her date from the next park over.

-Fin-

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atinylittlepain · 8 months

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Warm

college!steve harrington x f!oc

series masterlist

Steve gets flustered in an art museum. She kind of likes it.

18+ smut, normal hairy female bodies, steve is kind of a perv in the best way, smut duh, and verrryyyyyy sweet, also robin and eddie being good roommates

note: the painting that Andy and Steve look at is called l'origine du monde by Gustave Corbet and you can check it out here. This fic is for bush (not the president) and bush only, thanks.

.............................................................................

Steve is a good guy, right? Right. Respectful, respectable, two percent in his cheerios in the morning, light wash denim and clean sneakers, and he flosses two times a day, clean bill at every dentist appointment and he shows it, curls half a smile when he holds the door open for girls on campus, all ease, all-American and alright. Studying business, and of course he is, though his parents don’t know about the women’s studies minor he picked up all because of a flushed little crush on a professor that never amounted to anything, coupled with Robin strong-arming him into taking a few more classes with her. But that’s okay, he likes the classes, and he likes the classmates.

“Do you need a partner?”

“Hmm? Oh, I was just going to work alone actually.” Big scarf tucked up around her neck and a big coat wrapped up around her and she barely even glances at him down the slope of her nose, already refocusing on the painting in front of her. But he’s a good guy, right? Right. A real team player, tilting his head, and letting his hair fall into his face, a little shy, a little smile. She glances at him, unimpressed hook of her brow and her eyelashes lifting up over the rims of her glasses. Her name is Andy, he knows, though they haven’t spoken, at least not directly. She’s been known to correct him in class however, her hand raising after his, quick and cutting. He maybe, kinda, sorta likes that.

“I think we’re supposed to, you know, discuss what we’re looking at with each other for the VHS thing.”

“VTS.”

“What?”

“It’s called VTS. Visual thinking strategies. Are you sure you want to discuss this painting with me?”

“I’m game if you are.” She smiles, and he’s already thinking about which of her palms he’d like to write his number on. But when he finally looks at the painting, he finds himself to be a lot less concerned with his phone number.

“So, Steve, what’s the first thing you notice about this painting?”

“Um, well, I–”

“Is it too much for you?” Heat is prickling in a bloom up his neck, her smile sharp as her eyes flit between him and the painting, the painting that he really should have looked at before approaching her.

“No, no, it’s not too much. It’s– appreciation of the female form, right?” He’s not sure where to look any more, a strange kaleidoscope with how quickly his eyes are darting between scraps of the painting and her face. A freckle under her eye, and then swaths of cream and pink brush strokes and then the hitch in her cheek where her smile curves and then, and then.

“Hair.” His voice pitches and cracks somewhere in the word, turning one syllable into two like a hiccup. She laughs a clipped sound.

“Hair?”

“Around her– around her–”

“Around her cunt?” Something hot tightens in his chest, maybe shame, though shame doesn’t feel good like this does. He feels foolish, the quick whip of his head around like he’s worried they’re going to get caught, though for what he isn’t sure. Likewise, he has no clue what’s causing this devastating fluster, this feathering of heat. Whatever it is, it’s making it very hard to look at her, though the way his gaze has fixed on the painting doesn’t feel much better either. He’s never heard a woman use that word before. Actually, scratch that, he’s pretty sure he’s never heard anyone use that word before, not in Hawkins, at least, not corn fed and halfway bible bred, at least. It sets something slick shimmering inside of him, something warm that’s making it hard to think.

“Are you blushing?”

“I’m not, I’m just appreciating the work.”

“L’origine du monde.”

“What was that?”

“That’s the name of the painting. Origin of the world.”

“Well, that, uh, I guess that tracks.”

“It’s a shame, don’t you think?” When he does finally look at her again, she’s smiling, all ease, all cool, and him anything but, his fingers tapping a nervous rhythm into his hip.

“What’s a shame?” She sighs, a long sound, letting her neck roll to the side so her cheek scrunches into the plush of her scarf, a wistful look.

“The current trends. Looking like prepubescent girls. No hips, bald vaginas, everything so… sterile.” She speaks with a bluntness that winds him, if he’s being honest, her expression schooled, and maybe a little disillusioned, brow pinched and mouth pulling down in a grimace.

“I guess I hadn’t really thought about it.”

“Yeah, well, you have a cock. Makes things a little simpler, doesn’t it?”

“Jesus Christ, do you always talk like this?” He says it just a little too loud, a little too breathless, heads turning in the gallery around them, and he thinks he might regret even trying with this girl. Should’ve stuck with the tried and true, that blonde girl that wears sticky sweet lip gloss and smiles at him from across the room during lectures. But this girl, with her arched brow and her twitching smile and the dark flicker of nail polish when she smooths the throat of her scarf. This girl has his number, and not in the way he’d like her to.

“What do you prefer, Steve? Do you like a girl with a smooth shave?”

“Well I think that, um, a woman’s body is her own choice.” And it has to be the dumbest string of words he’s ever said, breathed out on two static exhales, a garbled parroting of what he’s learned in these classes, right? Well, sort of.

“How progressive of you.”

“But the painting is really, you know, it’s, um, it feels warm?” Not sure where that came from, another fresh flood of heat rising and buoying up into his cheeks. Though her expression seems to soften, her smirk falling into something lighter. Maybe, maybe, he got one right.

“Yeah, I think I get what you mean. There’s a softness to it that’s beautiful, don’t you think?”

“Mmhmm.”

“But also a strength, a frankness to it.”

“Yes, yeah.” That sick swirl of shame but not shame is receding, and only leaving a nice sort of haze in its place, his head lolling a little, eyes raking over the painting, the catch of light, the soft rounding of a body at rest, slumped and plush and kind of perfect, he thinks. Although he’s pretty sure Andy would correct him for perfect, perfect not being the point, because perfect is oppressive, right? Right. Fuck perfect, he thinks, this is something better than perfect. And maybe she is too.

“Steve?” Her hand on his arm, purple nail polish and a close-lipped smile snapping him back into his body, hmm? And her smile spreads, and the warmth does too, and she’s saying something about the prof calling them back together and he’s mmhmm-ing on the heels of her brown leather boots. And she sits next to him when they get back on the bus, Robin giving him a stink eye that breezes right over the top of his head as she passes down the aisle because he’s a little busy trying to take discreet inhales through his nose of whatever perfume Andy wears, spice and strong and warm, that same warm.

And it isn’t his number that gets jotted onto her palm, but her address that she scrawls onto the soft inside of his wrist, right over the catch and jump of his pulse, because she has invited him over for a drink tonight to continue our conversation from earlier.

Robin doesn’t even have a chance to snit at him for leaving her stranded to the back of the bus because he’s already shuffling her along by the crooked wing of his elbow, hands tucked down deep in his jacket pockets, snow starting to flit and fall from the gray hang of sky.

“I need your help.”

“You have a date.”

“I’m not sure.”

“It’s a date. She was like, rubbing your wrist. That’s a date.”

“I need your help.”

“Yeah, you do.”

Because Andy is not light washed denim and polo shirts and two percent milk. He’s seen her in the campus coffee shop, she takes soy, sometimes almond, for the record. So when they get back to their apartment, the smell of electric heat washing over them and curling in their lungs, they don’t go to Steve’s closet, they go to Robin’s.

Robin’s first pull is a turtleneck. He scoffs.

“What? Turtleneck dudes are definitely that chick’s type. Are you kidding me right now?” And when he assures her that he is, in fact, not kidding her right now, Robin starts to rummage again, eventually coming back out with a t-shirt for a band that Steve only knows because he has asked Robin to turn their music down on several occasions. And before he can say anything Robin is please hold-ing him and shouting down the hall for Eddie.

“What?”

“Steve has a date with a cool girl.”

“Cool girl, what cool girl?”

“Soc major, with the boots.”A little flurry of activity, socked feet slipping down the hall and Eddie hanging off the doorframe of his room, Steve not able to get a word in edgewise between their rapid fire volley.

“No, really? Little different for you, man, isn’t it?”

“I–”

“We need your closet, excuse us.” Robin on the warpath and Eddie grinning big, and Steve somewhere in the middle.

“How’d this happen?”

“She–”

“They were talking about art.” Robin reappearing with a long-sleeved thermal gripped in her other hand, eyebrows waggling.

“Steven? Our Steven? Talking about art? Well, well, well.” If he just had time he’d say something back to Eddie about how he got kicked out of the art museum last weekend for making quacking noises every time the security guard took a step, but Robin is already ushering him back down the hall, into his room this time, shoving the bundle of clothes into his chest and slamming the door shut on her way out.

Eddie is anemic and tends to eat breakfast when the sun is going down, and Robin is Robin, so it’s a tight fit getting the thermal on, followed by the t-shirt. But looking in the mirror, he thinks he likes it, gives an experimental and not at all vain flex of his arms that makes the sleeves of the tshirt roll back up toward the round of his shoulders and yeah, he likes that. And when he steps out of his room, Robin and Eddie already hovering and humming their approval, that warmth starts to build and bloom all over again.

And the rest is a little hazy from there. Robin offers him two refrigerator-chilled potstickers from last night’s dinner, something about fuel for your evening, Stevening, while Eddie pours himself a bowl of corn pops and prattles about something he learned in his music theory class, dissonance and skipped beats, and Steve can understand the feeling. And then they’re both kicking him out with an all too solemn godspeed, soldier. Eddie even salutes him.

Andy lives on the opposite side of campus in a cropping of apartments in a building that looks kind of like a castle, old brownstone and wrought iron. She buzzes him up, opens the door in a thin turtleneck and jeans, her head tilting and her lip pouting, just a little.

“Where’d the polo shirt go?”

“I changed.” Excellent, he thinks, how astute of him. She smiles.

“I can see. I wouldn’t have pegged you as a Bikini Kill fan though.” He’s trying to focus on her as she leads him deeper into her apartment, though his eyes still wander. Old wood flooring that’s barely visible underneath the thick swaths of patterned rugs. A crushed velvet, lime green sofa sitting in front of a fireplace that’s packed full with books. The kitchen is tucked into a corner, a little patch of black and white linoleum, old appliances. She’s pouring wine at the counter with her foot pressed into her other calf in a sort of shortened tree pose, and she’s asking him if he likes red, and he nods, all the while thinking to himself that he hasn’t consumed enough wine that doesn’t come in boxes to really care what color it is.

They sit down on the lime green sofa, her arm draped over the back of it, fingers tipped toward him. And he’s trying not to be such a dweeb about it, really, he’s not, but it only takes a few bashful glances to know that she very much is not wearing a bra. And he likes that, likes that a lot. Likes the soft curve and fold of her stomach with the way she’s turned toward him, the stretch of her jeans at her hips, her thighs, and his mouth goes dry around a gulp of wine when he starts to think about that painting again, and he starts to think about her, and he starts to think about her and the painting together. He starts to wonder, to wonder, to wonder what similarities he might find between the two.

There’s conversation, quiet and meandering and murmuring, their mouths staining dark and rosy from the wine, bodies turning warm and pliant and inching closer, closer, closer. And it all starts to melt, empty glasses set aside and her hand slipping into the back of his hair and she’s going to be the one in control, isn’t she? Fine by him, lax and languid in her hands, letting her tilt his face toward her. The first kiss is surprisingly sweet, just a peck to the corner of his mouth that makes him breathe hard through his nose in a petty huff of anticipation. She grins, lets the next one take its time, a little deeper, a little more heat, open mouth against open mouth, and he groans when her tongue slips behind his teeth.

This would be enough, he thinks. This time, at least. Her settling into his lap, little pants of breath between the wet snap of lips and spit and tongues. His hands squeeze at her thighs, coaxing a skittering sound from her throat when he reaches back and cups her ass, fingers splayed and pressing petulant. He’s going to feel her fingers in his scalp for a few days, the little hurts, little pulls. The next time she pulls away she presses her hand into his chest to keep him at bay, even as he tilts his chin up, feeling young in his eagerness as she smiles wide-eyed at him.

“Hi.”

“Hi.” Both of them whispering, and when they both realize they don’t know why they’re whispering, both of them giggling, getting away with something when she pulls him up off the couch and into her bedroom.

“Why is this shirt so tight?” She huffs it out with the tshirt halfway rucked up his torso, his hair falling in his face as he curls over trying to help her get it off, both of them breathing out a laugh when the fabric finally is up and over and off of him.

“Oh baby, your hair.” He likes baby, baby feels good, feels like another warm bloom in his chest, his smile turning sheepish when she reaches both hands into his hair, shaking it out at the roots before smoothing it back for him. He chases after her hand, manages to press a kiss to her palm before she’s reaching for the hem of his, Eddie’s, thermal. It comes off easier, quieter, her eyes softening as she takes in his bare chest, catching him off guard when she ducks her head down to press a kiss to the dip that connects the lines of his collar bone, there and gone, little sweetness, little warmth as she steps back and grins.

“Do you wanna lay down for me?” Not even a thought, just ligament and muscle moving, some sort of game dancing between their eyes as he settles back on his elbows against the dark fabric of her duvet. He watches the fine flicker of her fingers make deft work of the buttons of her jeans. An absent-minded thing, the heel of his palm pressed to the ache, to the heat. He’s already hard, already smearing warm against the front of his boxers watching her step out of her jeans.

“Oh fuck, honey.” A little pained, the sweet prickle of agony, of being right. A vision somewhere between obscenity and divinity, he thinks, though that would be playing into the madonna-whore complex their professor was lecturing about last week. He doesn’t care, doesn’t care about much of anything except continuing to look at Andy, the soft divot at her waist where her white cotton thong settles against the soft curve of skin, and the dark bloom of curls along the sides of the material where her thighs touch. He was right, and now he’s doomed.

She smiles, finger hooking in the hem of her shirt and pulling it up just a little, exposing the sweet dip and swell of her stomach, and suddenly he’s not so interested in just laying back any more. Greedy, he feels the slick, desperate curl of it in his gut. Greedy when he shuffles up onto his knees and crawls to the end of the bed. Greedy when his hands curl at the fat of her hips and he pulls her in closer so he can press the open heat of his mouth just above her navel, soft and warm and he wants more of it, of her. She sighs, a long, languid sound that he wants to hear more of, dipping his head down to mouth at the jut of her hip, dampening the fabric slung taut there.

Limbs tangled with limbs, some of it graceless, awkward, some of it perfect motion. She lays out like a painting, like the painting, for him, her turtleneck curled up around her sternum so he can palm a handful of her breast, settling down between her thighs and wasting no time in dragging his tongue through her cunt.

She wasn’t wrong about the trends. Hairless bodies, smooth bodies, flinchingly pristine bodies. And that’s fine, he thinks, been with plenty of bodies like that, made his body like that for a while too. But he likes this, likes her, the sense and sate of it, the scent of it, even if it makes him a pervert, lapping at her while he curls two fingers inside her. And somewhere in the simpering sear of it, his hips have started to jerk and stutter into the mattress beneath him, picking up a stilted speed when she starts to moan, clipped sounds and his name and he wants it and he wants it and he wants it so bad. She comes with a long sigh that cracks high into a whine, her thighs tensing and slackening around his face. And he feels a warmth of his own, relief of his own, though the reality of what he did turns him sheepish, pressing a bashful smile into the swell of her inner thigh.

“Did you?” Her words crackle breathless with her grin, peering down at him from behind her forearm and he can barely look at her, turning his face back into her skin, letting his teeth graze there a little mean.

“Maybe, shut up.” Her laugh bursts and bubbles up, her head tossed back, eyes crinkled shut as he crawls up and up and up, not evening minding the uncomfortable cooling in his jeans when he presses a sloppy kiss to her mouth, turning her laugh into a satisfied hum.

“Hmm, kinda feminist of you coming in your jeans just from eating me out.” Speechless, and he kind of likes it, huffing out a breathless laugh as he watches the cartoonish jump of her eyebrows. He presses a kiss between them, sweet and simple, warm all over when he pulls back to find her smiling at him.

“I like you, a lot.” That whispering thing again, a little shy, a little young, and a little uncertain. But there’s no need for it, not when she tilts her chin up and presses a kiss to his cheek, the round of it, the warmth of it.

“I like you too, Steve.”

#steve harrington #steve harrington smut #steve harrington one shot #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington fandom #steve harrington ficlet #steve harrington au

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hinamie · 2 months

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hi hina! if you were yuuji, megumi, and nobara's personal stylist (you already kind of are 🙂‍↕️) what's an outfit you would pick that represents their casual style and one look that represents fancy attire? and what's an absolute No for each of them?

SORRY FOR GETTING TO THIS LATE i have . fashion opinions and need 2 articulate them Properly. gomen ik this isn't /exactly/ what u asked this is moreso just. my style headcanons fr each of them but i think it more or less gets the point across gFGHDSHFGJ.

will get long btw :')

yuuji: casual:

i loveloveLOVE him in jean jackets . since a hoodie is a staple for him that + a jean jacket i think is The Go-To fit for him hands down i think he pulls it off so well. u can even ditch the hoodie to opt for a baggy graphic T shirt but the jean jacket carries the fit. it’s so casual n classic which helps it be ~versitile~ and it's just boyish enough to rly suit yuuji’s character. I have him in distressed jeans (grey or dark wash blue, as long as it’s a different shade of denim) whenever i can bc i think it looks good but athletic pants (think like adidas jogger-shaped) work also . add red sneakers of choice accessorize that boy with a gym bag or backpack Bam yuuji fit.

formal:

i feel very strongly about yuuji in a dress shirt with his sleeves rolled up. no suit jacket fr him but definitely a tie and a waistcoat + straight leg trousers. i want to keep a pop of red on him so the safe option wld b to make his tie red but i think maybe he could pull off a maroon dress shirt + black everything else combo. important thing is He Wears Red :)

no’s:

honestly I can picture yuuji in most anything but i don’t think he wears long structured jackets, even fr fancy outfits. he’s too stocky of a build and i think a long jacket makes him look shapeless in a bad way i think mid-thigh is as long as i’d be willing 2 go for his outerwear, though im sure with the right fit i could b convinced otherwise

megumi: casual:

tl;dr: loose sweater over turtleneck/over collared shirt i feel SO strongly about megumi in loose straight silhouettes. HEAVY on the grey/black neutrals with the occasional cool jewel tone (green or teal u know how it is) though i do also like him in a chocolate brown! it is important 2 me also that whatever pants he wears r not too baggy since his top will have a lot of that Chunkiness to it and u need some shape n slimness 2 the leg 2 balance it out. this overall silhouette on megu >>>>>>>

formal:

unlike yuuji i Do think megumi could pull off a suit jacket or maybe even a blazer but whatever it is u best bet this boy is in All Black . I also like him in a turtleneck instead of a dress shirt but if we button him up Completely i think it achieves more or less the same look

no’s:

ok i have a couple but my biggest one is Fushiguro Megumi Does Not Wear Shorts end of story no further elaboration. also, this is slightly more forgiveable but like w yuuji i would avoid him in long jackets Also, altho fr the opposite reason . it’s not tht he’s too stocky for it rather i think he’s too lanky n a long coat runs the risk of drowning him — again situational tho !!!!! he would probably look good in a black wool coat so i will entertain the possibility .

also listen. this is a personal headcanon and ik it likely puts me in the minority and i may even get flack fr this . but i do not think fushiguro megumi would have piercings. i know ive drawn him with earrings before but listen those were for Me . those were for the fit. he was an acting mannequin. but just him??? his personal feelings?? i just have a hard time thinking that boy is th type 2 put metal in his face sue me :’/

nobara: casual:

this is so hard because a. women’s fashion has SO many more options b. nobara is 100% the type to have a different style every week and c. she looks good in all of it. I think though i like her best in long skirts and layers so something along these lines is a Hard yes from me, though possibly with a brighter colour palette

formal:

i had Other ideas but god just spoke to me through pinterest by showing me this dress and this is all i want to see nobara in actually.

(((real talk tho in terms of fancy dresses I like her in black/gold/red/pink for colours, either baby doll or bell skirts, strapless sweetheart necklines,, etc etc etc)))

no’s:

similar to yuuji, I don’t have many things that i picture as off-limits for nobara fashion-wise bc she seems the type to experiment :’) I think any faux-pas i can name r just my own fashion icks so i’ll just go with those: no low rise and no full skin-tight fits (ik i said she seems down for anything but i think she draws the line @ athleisure). also maybe a pocket pick but i don't think she would wear orange or hot pink on account of her hair

#kikuism #answered #HELP SORRY THIS IS SO LONG I HAVE SO MANY THOUGHTS #i would have illustrated some of it myself but i am Eepy and cannot b bothered gomen

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creationofthecourtesan · 2 years

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the assessment.

hair - is always well kept with a soft sheen, almost always long at least cleavage length. hairstyles are simple, usually long and flowing (either straight, wavy or loosely curled). hair extensions are probably added.

skin - clear. flawless with a soft glow grooming - immaculate. eyebrows plucked and arched to perfection, lash extensions, fillers. here's something i noticed about their nails and makeup that i didn't expect:

their makeup, while it was usually a "full face" or applied "heavy" at times, was almost always in neutral or natural colors. lips were shades of pink,nude,browns or red. same thing with eyeshadow. it was never any colors like purple, blue and it was also never "loud" or extravagant. i guess the best way to describe this would be "soft glam".

as far as nails go, it was pretty much the same. shades of white, light pinks (i didn't see too many dark/hot pinks, rarely was there any color (i noticed that if there was, they were usually on vacation or it was around halloween or a special event), the boldest was either a red nail or various versions of french manicures.

body - slim/slender or hwp with average to big breasts (implants). something else i noticed is that while a lot of these girls may be naturally skinny they still go to the gym and workout. there is a difference between being naturally slim and being fit and toned. these girls definitely prefer to be fit and very toned, especially when it comes to their legs and stomachs. preferred workouts are cardio and pilates.

this wasn't shown a lot but from what i did gather, these women eat healthy 75% of the time (if not more). supplements, vitamins and protein powder were apart of their fitness/workout regimes. it seems like everyone has a sweet tooth though. favorite indulgences where chocolate and desserts from restaurants.

teeth - perfection. hollywood smiles. bright white.

wardrobe - i would call this elegant yet very stylish. quite a bit of lace, fur, and ruffles. i noticed that the color palette skewed slightly more towards neutral colors: white, black, nudes, beiges, light/baby pinks, light greys and light brown (usually in the fall/winter). when they did wear color (which was often) i realized that it was because they were promoting/modeling clothes. when it seemed that they were wearing their own clothes, it was usually with a more neutral palette.

when colors were worn, the two forefronts were deep blue and hot pink. other colors such as orange, yellow, green, etc seem to be usually worn during mid summer or on tropical vacations.

jeans are rarely worn. when pants or shorts are worn (and this is rare as well just not as rare as denim) it's usually apart of a 2 pc set or paired with a silk/satin/lace shirt.

solid colors were still in the majority but as far as patterns go, the main one was floral, then the versace baroque print and some animal print, also there was plaid but almost only when worn with tweed (usually a tweed suit, jacket or blazer) and it was almost always accessorized with a chanel brooch, chanel jewelry or a purse, or pearl jewelry.

accessories - always designer (unless they were modeling someone else's designs), the 3 major designer purses were louis vuitton, chanel and hermes. and honorable mention is the lady dior bag. other accessories were sunglasses, luxury jewelry mainly cartier and vancleef and arpels, watches were rolex or patek and of course diamonds are a girl's best friend.

when it came to shoes, this was the exception to the rule. shoes were in various colors and styles and embellishments. and it was usually heels. heels. and more heels. sneakers were worn sparingly and usually only at the gym or while shopping. flats were usually worn on at the beach (or a beach club) or while shopping. flats of choice are the hermès orans and the sneakers of choice are chanel.

it seems as if the clothes don't need to come from saks, bergdorfs, etc. but my guess is that they do need to be made well and of quality. also baggy/loose clothes are hardly ever worn unless it's a sweater; form fitting clothes are preferred. dresses and skirts are worn wayyyy more than pants.

lifestyle - i'm going to keep this short because it should be pretty obvious: these women only associate with rich, generous men. they have a tendency to go after men that really love the feminine, slightly sexy look. and the men in their life are most definitely sponsoring their lifestyle. if the woman is new to the game, the man will be introducing her to the luxury life, if she's been in it a while he will be keeping her at the level she is accustomed to at minimum or taking her higher.

they are always eating at upscale restaurants, going to events, sunbathing on yachts and traveling to the hottest vacation destinations around the world: maldives, monaco, mykonos, etc.

in their world it's either luxury or nothing. and if you want her to be apart of your world you better be able to afford her.

this is the aesthetic and lifestyle i am aiming for.

#hypergamy #high maintenance #high value woman #hypergamous black women #musings

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adz · 11 months

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Property Brothers

The first Property Brother is born and it’s like a light appearing during the long night of an earth without Property Brothers. His name is Abraham, and from the moment of his birth there are murmurs about who he will partner with, which properties he will purchase and the renovations he will spearhead, and the media appearances that will follow.

Colin is born a year later, and it’s not apparent he even is a Property Brother until his second year of elementary school when he brings the deed to his parents’ home into show-and-tell and flips it for nearly three times the amount they’d paid a decade earlier. Abraham is the one who takes the ball and runs with it, securing new land on which to build a new home. The mother and father are pretty much just along for the ride.

With their fledgling businesses geographically overlapping so severely one might think the two boys would be at odds, but nothing could be further from the truth. Abraham and Colin are thick as thieves and do everything together, feeding and bathing one another and talking in hushed tones long into the night. They apply to business school when Colin is 11 and Abraham is 12, and they both get in, and they do each others' homework, quickly moving up through the ranks until they are teaching the classes while their professors watch in awed silence. When they graduate at the top of their class, perfectly tied with the highest grades ever recorded, they sell the school building and use the money to start their own business.

There was another brother born too, Gus, and he will become relevant later.

The Property Brothers are in their element. Here's how they do things. First, they purchase a property. Then, they visit the property and loudly remark on its positive and negative qualities. A process follows where the positive qualities are enhanced and the negative qualities utterly erased - this part is difficult to understand and not worth describing in detail. Finally, the brothers sell the property and make a hell of a lot of dough. They could use this dough for anything, but they always use it to buy more property. To do otherwise would be contrary to their nature.

Neither Abraham nor Colin has ever gone to a barber, but their identical black hairstyles are an inch and a half long and neatly slicked down. One of them wears a denim shirt and the other wears selvedge denim jeans. At all times, the one wearing the denim shirt wears dark pants, and the one wearing denim jeans wears a light patterned button-down shirt. It is impossible to say which brother is which. They orbit one another like sister stars with identical masses. They still live in their parents' home and sleep together in their childhood bedroom. At one point, they are seen dating beautiful women with white sweaters, and they marry, but soon their wives recede into the background radiation, and it's unclear if they were ever discrete objects to begin with.

Someone offers the Property Brothers a reality show on television, but they turn it down. They have everything they could possibly need. They have never flown on a plane; they drive black Ford Mustangs. They eat oatmeal for breakfast and steak for dinner. They have never gone to a library or movie theater, never been to a funeral or wedding (not even their own), never held a baby, never listened to music. The properties they own accumulate value at an impossible rate, baffling economists. The Property Brothers are ironclad. The gentle, masculine, beatific front they present is not actually a front but completely real and true. They have not said anything demeaning or rude about a person in their entire lives.

On the fifteenth anniversary of the founding of Abraham and Colin's business, Gus comes to visit. He has graduated from college with a degree in sociology. You can tell him apart by his hair, which is slightly curly, and his sneakers, which neither Abraham nor Colin would be caught dead in. Otherwise he is identical and somehow simultaneously the exact same age as the other two.

When Abraham opens the door to their parents' house and sees Gus, he smiles and says "It's great to see you! Let me get my brother." He closes and locks the door and goes into the garage. Colin is in his bedroom on the second story looking down out of the window at Gus.

For the next three years, the brothers have to use the Internet to buy and sell property. They work on their laptops at the living room table while their parents move to and fro. Colin contracts a scout to observe properties and report back to the brothers, and Abraham chooses to buy or sell based on the scout's info. The scout misses important details: the Property Brothers would never buy an ochre house, but they are told it's vermilion. For the first time in their lives, they begin to lose money. Meanwhile, Gus has died of exposure.

During the time the Property Brothers spend indoors, their business goes bankrupt and their names are dragged through the dirt. "Abraham" is known to buy houses with flooded basements, and the name "Colin" becomes synonymous with "house that has a gas leak." Everyone has forgotten that they ever had wives; no one would marry them now. The brothers are ruined.

However, something is about to happen that nobody would expect. It happens on a Sunday morning while their parents are at church. Colin is in the garage cleaning his Mustang with special soap, and Abraham is looking at paintings in the hallway. Suddenly, both brothers smell the familiar scent of their house burning. They run into the living room and see that their laptops have simultaneously ignited and that the blaze has consumed the table, the chairs, the carpet, the wainscoting, the cornices, the pilasters. Abraham and Colin embrace and the house collapses around them, kicking up a large cloud of ash.

When the dust settles the brothers straighten up, blinking, and walk through the wreckage of the destroyed house, past what used to be the front door and a loose pile of deteriorating human bones. They stand at the end of the driveway and look back at what used to be their refuge and their prison.

A limousine pulls up next to the brothers, and a man wearing a black suit gets out. "What happened here?" he asks.

"Recent renovations to this property have opened up basically infinite opportunities for land utilization," says Colin.

"The area is zoned for residential and you can pick up this lot for a song," says Abraham.

"This is a wonderful neighborhood with lots of walking trails and natural features," says Colin.

When the Property Brothers' parents return home, they see that their home is gone and another home is being built in its place by a new owner. They see that their sons have freed themselves from the pain of knowing themselves, from knowing not-themselves. They hold one another and weep with joy. Residents come out of the neighboring homes with folding tables, grills, and champagne. Everyone here deserves to be here. Everything is arranged in a way that makes sense visually. Jewel and earth tones. Granite and marble. The fingerprints of God lie across everything. These homes are also properties. These people are also brothers.

#property brothers #blaze this

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anaarofficial · 20 days

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A PSA to all unapologetic summer-aholics - Anaar

We’re keeping you light on your feet this summer so you can run, not walk to your beach plans, delayed sunny lunches, cocktails night, and more. Courtesy? The humble jute and Anaar’s artistry.

#bridal shoes #wedding shoes for bride #wedding sneakers #wedding shoes #bridal sneakers india #bridal footwear #denim sneakers #denim sneakers womens

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womenofwrestlingfashion · 1 month

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Classic Mesh Button Up Jersey in Black/Red from Pro-Standard ($100 via Fresh Society), Letizia Black Acid Wash Denim Mid-Rise Cargo Mini Skirt from Steve Madden (on sale: $55.20 via Lulus) & Court Legacy Lift Sneakers in Black from Nike ($90)

#Bayley #Bayley wwe #Classic Mesh Button Up Jersey #jersey #jerseys #Pro-Standard #Letizia Black Acid Wash Denim Mid-Rise Cargo Mini Skirt #skirt #skirts #Steve Madden #Court Legacy Lift Sneakers #sneaker #sneakers #black #Nike #women of wrestling fashion #wwe #Fanatics Fest #Fanatics Fest NYC

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inherstars · 5 months

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Swimming Lessons | The Last of Us (2,241 words)

Man, I don't know, I'm just avoiding work at this point.

Ellie toed out of her flip-flops and kicked them aside, staring dubiously at the water lapping the sandy shore. There were bits of downy white goose feathers here-and-there on the surface, a dead and floating wasp, little parsley snippets of algae from the lake floor. Further out from the beach, where the water cleared the overhang of trees, the sun dappled and glinted off it beautifully, enticingly. She never really looked at water like something she wanted any part of, but she conceded it could be pretty.

“Do we really have to do this today?”

Joel joined her, setting down a tote loaded with rolled beach towels, and storked on one leg to remove his sneakers.

"I ain't pushin' you on a raft for the rest of my life. Frankly I can't believe how many rafts there were out there to begin with. Seems like some kind of freak coincidence."

"What if I just started carrying an inflatable in my pack?" She gasped in sudden inspiration, reeling on him. "FLOATIES."

Joel stopped, squinting an eye.

“What? What the hell are floaties?"

"You know. Those little blow-up arm bands?” She formed the shape of something small and bulbous in both hands. “I could get a pair in, like, fun animal shapes."

Unmoved, he switched to his bare foot and peeled off the other sneaker.

"Get in the damned water."

Joel still couldn’t understand why she’d been so resistant to this. From the first warm, compelling day of early summer she’d been making excuses, one after another: the water was obviously too cold for safety; she’d just eaten, she’d get a cramp (she’d always just eaten, the kid could put a labrador to shame); she couldn’t find a bathing suit that didn’t make her uncomfortable.

It took awhile to thwart that last objection, but Maria helped him find her a nicely modest two-piece that looked more like a blousy jumper than a bathing suit. She called it a tankini. Joel steadfastly refused to use that word, but if it got her in the water Ellie could call it whatever the hell she wanted.

But no floaties. There was a line.

He’d opted to start her out on the small, sandy shore that typically served as a boat launch. The shallows here were a little more gradual than elsewhere, and it afforded them a little bit of privacy from the otherwise crowded basking beach further down the lake’s edge. Joel stood, hands-on-hips, as Ellie grimaced and made disgusted noises about the temperature and hygiene of the water, slowly wading in up to her shins.

When she didn’t hear any additional splashing she looked back at him.

“Are you coming in the water with me or not?”

“Course I am.” He half-spread his arms, looking down at himself. “Got my swim trunks on, don’t I?”

To be honest, until just then Ellie had mistook the knee-length trunks for denim. Her nose wrinkled.

“Why are you wearing a t-shirt?”

Joel advanced to the water, testing the temperature with one foot. Alright, it was pretty fucking cold, but he’d be damned if he admitted as much in front of her.

“Why does that matter? Nobody needs to see this old man’s scars.”

Ellie came back to the shore with a few deep, plunging steps, and grabbed his wrist. With emphasis she pointed further down the lake, to the parti-colored clusters of sunbathers and swimmers on the basking beach.

“Do you see that crowd over there? The one that’s been gathering and slowly getting bigger since we got here? The one with a knot of forty- and fifty-something old women literally pointing a pair of binoculars at us?”

Joel looked. Unhappily.

“...maybe.”

“They’re here for one thing, and that’s to finally see you with your stupid shirt off. If you’re going to make me get in this nasty, ice-cold water, on a full stomach, with no floaties, you’re going to give those poor, thirsty old women a show.”

He throated out a resistant sound.

“Can't we just--"

"Quid pro quo, Clarice." Ellie met his eyes firmly and made a stuttering teeth-sucking noise at him. With a deep sigh Joel reached for the forward hem of his shirt, cross-arming it overhead in one smooth but clearly reluctant motion.

"...you're ruinin' that movie for me." He tossed the shirt back to the bag of towels, palms self-consciously whispering together as he passed them over each other. “Alright, git."

Ellie’s head turned on a swivel, snorting in amusement to behold the obvious commotion this was causing further down the beach.

"So thirsty," she smirked.

"In the water, Ellie."

She was more nervous than she expected, having long since compartmentalized the trauma of all previous attempts at navigating the water. It was foremost in Joel’s mind, however, and he followed close behind her as she went, offering a brief touch to one shoulder to let her know how near he was, and where.

They plunged in, tread becoming heavier and more laborious the deeper they went. The sun started to dapple through the overhead trees, tinting the water bullfrog green, spangling their skin with patchy warmth.

"Just up to your chest is fine,” Joel said gently. “We're not going to be doing any deep dives today. If you need to touch bottom, you'll be able to. But you won't need to."

Ellie emerged into the sun, sliding her bare feet along the sandy bottom, feeling every pebble and pinching plant along the way. She tried to turn to face him, but Joel arrested her in place, hooking his hands lightly under her arms from behind.

“Nope. You’re good where you are.”

“Okay…”

“Alright. I’m gonna lift. I want you to pick your feet up and let them float.”

“I’m not going to float.”

“You’ll float. Never met anybody more full’ve hot air.”

“Har har har.��

Ellie swallowed, steeling with a breath before doing as she was told. It felt wildly unnatural at first, but Joel’s grip supported her, the muscles of his arms tightening slightly to take her weight. Her legs came up, knees and toes poking above the water, and sure enough -- though her head and shoulders stayed propped back against his chest -- she did indeed float.

She laughed nervously.

"Okay. This isn't horrible."

"Alright. I'm gonna let you go a little bit."

"Wait--waitwaitwait, Joel--"

"Ellie. Relax. As long as you got air in your lungs, the water's gonna hold you up. You're a balloon." He eased her shoulders down, one hand cupped supportively behind her head, holding it above the water.

"Like that. Relax. Let your arms spread out a bit. You feel that? The water holds you up."

Her breathing eased and evened a little.

"Okay."

"Not so bad?"

"Not so bad."

He put his other hand under her spine, gently, gently reclining her head back into the water.

"Relax your neck, you don’t have to hold that tension. It's gonna get quiet."

Joel let her head ease into the water, waiting a moment before removing his hand. He palmed down her neck until he supported only her shoulders, and even then with only a light touch.

Ellie floated like a magician's apprentice, the water lapping at her ears. He said it would be quiet but instead she could hear the soft thunder of the water as her head rested in it, buoyant. Her eyes closed, and Joel began to move her slowly, like a raft, sideways rather than deeper into the lake. He took back his hand.

"The water wants to hold you up," he said. Her eyes reopened, slipping sideways to him. "You don't have to fight it."

"OK. The water wants to hold me up. Now what?"

His hand went back under her spine. He nodded at her.

"Alright. Put your legs down, find the bottom. We're gonna try that the other way."

Ellie did as instructed, struggling just a little, though he maintained a steadying hand on her until she could stand upright. She shook her head to either side to dislodge the water from her ears.

"Now." Joel ducked down into the water, neck-deep, and wrapped both hands around her shins. "Same as before, but in reverse. This time I'm gonna lift your legs, but you're gonna tilt forward onto your stomach, like a wheelbarrow, until your top half floats. Don't make that face, it'll be fine.”

“None of that sounds remotely fine.”

“You can do whatever you want with your arms to keep your balance, just keep your chin up and your face out of the water."

"You think??"

"Ally-oop."

There was definitely a bit more struggle that time, but Joel was as gentle with her as he could be, and Ellie kept her cool as best she could. Despite serious doubts, and after a little trial and error, she floated… just as before. Joel planed a forearm under her shins until her legs were up and she was nicely level on her belly. Gently, he let her go.

"There you go."

"Is this swimming??"

"This is floating," He laughed. "But that's halfway. Alright, now comes the fun part. Kick your feet just a little. Little baby duck paddle feet."

Ellie sniggered nervously at the imagery, but followed nonetheless. Slowly she eased forward, propelled through the water as it broke around her chest and shoulders, and Joel followed along at a comfortable pace.

"Holy shit,” she murmured.

"That's right. Now close your fingers together like you're aiming to slap someone and--there you go. Just like that."

"Holy shit."

"Keep your arms at the level of the water. Push the water away with ‘em. It's like paddling a boat, you gotta move both at the same time to get anywhere fast."

He stood and watched her for awhile, then startled and plunged effortfully after her as she paddled a little too far for comfort. He caught her by the ankles, redirecting her like a wayward parade float.

"Hang on. Don't go too deep just yet."

"Can't I go out toward the middle?"

"Eventually, but I don't think you're ready just yet. The first time you can't feel the bottom under you, it's... alarming. Keep parallel to the shore. There you go."

Joel watched her a minute longer, eventually satisfied she was safe trying out her own techniques.

"Listen, don't do anything too exciting, I'm going for a quick swim. Stay toward that side, you'll be fine."

Ellie called back, busy concentrating, "Okay."

It was an age since Joel could swim because he wanted to, unencumbered by shoes, boots, an entire pack of supplies, and because he had no other choice. He launched himself in a slow breast stroke towards deeper water, the sun baking on his skin where it breeched the surface. He swam just until he couldn’t feel the silted bottom anymore, only the gauzy fronds of algae, then tread water for a minute or two. He pushed his hair back with both hands, a mass of slick, blackened pewter curls, and rubbed the rivulets of water from his eyes. For just a little while he breathed, and floated, and enjoyed the moment.

Eventually Joel looked toward the basking shore and, to his bewilderment, found the crowd of women still there. Still staring. Now there was a second pair of binoculars.

He checked back on Ellie, alarmed to find her paddling determinedly toward a field of lily pads. That was way more speed and enthusiasm than she was prepared for. Or him.

"Ellie. Ellie. Nope--"

"I wanna see what's over there!"

"Not yet--damn it--"

He folded under the water with a broad-chested stroke, piloting through the miasma of the lake's inner world. Filmy green, darts of silver minnows and a particularly brave sunfish that caught the light and spun away like a sunstruck medallion. He came up for air near enough to Ellie that he could loop an arm around her waist again, coraling her away from the lily pads.

Once they were in shallow enough water she got her feet under her and stood.

"Aw, come on."

"I don't know how deep it gets over there, not yet. Besides which, those things don't just float around untethered, there's stuff underneath them you can get caught in." He wiped both hands down his face to clear his eyes. "But you did good. I think that's enough for your first lesson."

"I wanted to make it out to that big raft in the middle."

"You'll get there. Next time you'll go a little further." He waded up onto the shore, streaming water, and wrung out the hanging legs of his trunks before fishing for his t-shirt. He shook it out and wormed back into it, giving Ellie a momentary, dismaying glimpse of the dimpled scar on his abdomen. Evidence of her clumsy attempts to save him.

She wrung out her ponytail and climbed up onto the shore as well, casting around for her flip-flops.

"You wanna go over to the other beach?"

"I don't believe I do."

"But the thirst, Joel." She clenched her fists and shook them for emphasis. "My God, the thirst!"

"Good idea. This old man needs a beer." He slipped barefoot into his beaten sneakers and started up the beach, the sand transitioning unevenly to grass. Ellie hurried to catch up with him.

"Can I have one too?"

"Sure, why not. You did good today, you earned it."

"Holy fuck, seriously?"

"Yeah, I'm serious. Right after I get you those floaties."

#my writing #tlou #the last of us #last of us #joel miller

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otrtbs · 8 months

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heyyy 4, 5, and 14 for the lovely james potter please and thank you‼️ <3

hiii!!

4. If you could put this character in any other media, be it a book, a movie, anything, what would you put them in?

he’s never beating the theodore laurence allegations from little women ever. however, there’s no way to make him laurie in a way that works for me personally. but he’s laurie.

also i would put that man in a rothko painting so fast. one of the bright and beautiful ones like rothko’s orange and yellow. and i’d let the painting swallow him whole.

5. What's the first song that comes to mind when you think about them?

BY YOUR SIDE BY THE 1975 🗣️‼️‼️ LISTEN TO ME LISTENTOME‼️‼️

14. Assign a fashion aesthetic to this character.

see james here? he’s never beating the denim allegations either. also he likes cool and fun sneakers and showing off his abs. sue him.

#ask game!

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howtofightwrite · 2 years

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Okay so I’m currently writing a character that has a background in Muay Thai, but I wanted them to have somewhat of a punk fashion. Now punk fashion mostly consists of tight clothes with unstretchy materials. Changing the pants is not a problem, so Iwas mostly wondering about the upper body and feet. How well can you throw an elbow in a leather jacket? Maybe a vest is a better option? Also shoes, I don‘t like sneakers, and I initially thought to get them cowboy boots because they look cool and also the character loves the sound they‘re making when walking. Now cowboy boots are also notoriously made for not bending at the ankle, which of course comes in the way of kicking. Now I’m not too knowledgable in muay thai techniques, but as the kicks are often done with the shins, would it sill work to have something like low-rise cowboy boots? Or would it be better to have just some thick leather dress shoe adjacent shoes? With free mobility of the ankle?

So, the fun thing with the punk aesthetic is that there's a lot of very practical clothes that are still in theme.

So, starting with leather jackets, good ones aren't going to restrict your movement by much. Parrying unarmed strikes with a leather jacket is actually nice. This is because the jacket (and any insulation in the sleeve) will absorb some of the impact, meaning you're less likely to bruise. Decent quality biker jackets will have some reinforcement (to protect the wearer) and as a result will actually function as armor for light melee combat. It won't save you from a knife or a gunshot, but, depending on the design, it will soften the punches and kicks you take.

Leather, denim, or heavy canvas pants are a similar story. Yes, it's entirely possible to get tight jeans that restrict your movement, but casual cut pants will provide mobility and protection. It really comes down to what your definition of punk pants are.

With boots, the better choice is going to be work boots or motorcycle boots. In both cases you're looking at heavy footwear which armors the foot and protects the wearer. The lack of mobility in the ankle is less of a concern because of the protection the boot provides. In this case, steel toed is a perk, it's actual metal armor over your toes, protecting you from someone stomping your foot. There's nothing automatically wrong with cowboy boots, but that's moving away from the punk aesthetics.

There's the commercial, punk aesthetic. You'll find it in those “counterculture” corporate clothing stores. It's about as inherently contradictory as mass market Che Guevara tee-shirts. And, if you're looking at that, particularly looking at the examples marketed towards women, your assessment of the loss of mobility and general unsuitability for combat is probably spot on. It's cut to be tighter than it should be, for the visual aesthetic and your ability to move in it is a casualty of the same.

And, from my perspective as an outsider to the scene, that's not punk. It's more like punk cosplay.

If you want your character to have a punkish aesthetic, to go hand in hand with their fighting style, then you should probably look at heavier clothes that are designed to take a beating and keep going. That was the original aesthetic of punk. Heavy leather jackets that will protect you from a beating. Heavy pants that will do the same. Motorcycle boots are a big plus here. They're heavy, durable, look good, and they work as armor. Spikes and studs can be retrofitted onto existing clothes, probably with an eye for keeping it durable enough to stand up to a fight. Gloves are up to you, but there's no real downside to having a pair.

For a martial artist buying clothes, you're making constant decisions about whether something will look good, or whether you can move in it. There isn't a concrete line of which one you should select, this is a personal preference, however, if you're planning to take those clothes into combat, expect them to get damaged, and at that point the freedom of movement and durability start to become a lot more attractive options. Ironically, the original core of the punk aesthetic was leaning hard into that combat ready street wear.

So, yes, your character is giving up a little flexibility in their ankles, but not enough to matter, and in exchange, they're armoring them. They're giving up a little flexibility in their arms, though again, not enough to matter, but in exchange they're getting armor. They're not wearing form fitting pants, but the trade off is, they can move freely, and still get the protective benefits of those heavier, and “unstretchy,” materials.

Once you get past that, Muay Thai fits with a punkish attitude. There's no direct connection, between them, but the brutal nature of competitive Muay Thai does sync up pretty nicely with punk.

-Starke

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#how to fight write #Starke answers #writing advice #writing reference #writing tips #character building

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